


Jesus and Friends

by cthchewy (pyrrhic_victoly)



Series: Honey and Vinegar [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Homestuck
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, M/M, Non-Chronological, Worldbuilding, a raging trash fire of discarded scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 18:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15153350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhic_victoly/pseuds/cthchewy
Summary: Bits and pieces of events set in the "Honey and Vinegar" universe.





	1. The Talk, part 1

Crowley was awoken by a high-pitched scream.

When he cracked open his eyes, he noticed that sunlight was streaming through the bedroom window. Being a demon, he had no physical need for sleep, and so tended to take naps whenever he felt like it. Naps were very nice, especially in his very nice bed with the 1200 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.

The screaming, though. That wasn't relaxing at all. Then it devolved into whimpering, which still wasn't relaxing.

"Kids," Crowley grumbled. With a snap of his fingers, he was fully dressed – suit, shades, and all. He stalked down the hallway to the new bedroom that had miraculously appeared in his flat the moment a second being had begun sharing the premises.

The location of this second bedroom was the same as when Sollux had lived here, but Eridan was allowed much more freedom in decorating than Sollux ever was. At least this one had _taste_ , Crowley thought, even though he was lacking in other areas. It was a work in progress.

In the room, Eridan was standing before his full-length mirror, crying into his palms.

"Whoa, hold up, kid. What's the emergency?"

Eridan looked up, his eyes red and face blotchy. "It's gone!" he said.

"Uh...huh?"

"You know... _it!_ " Eridan vaguely gestured toward his crotch.

Oh bless it, Crowley thought. He was going to have to give The Talk.

 

* * *

 

The bookstore was very cluttered, as always. It had perhaps gotten more cluttered recently since boxes and boxes of computer parts had begun sharing space with the books. Despite this mess, none of the bookstore's inhabitants had trouble finding anything they needed. Perhaps it was miracles, or perhaps it was the seemingly disorganized organization system of two brilliant nerds cohabiting.

One thing that had significantly improved since Aziraphale had lived alone was that there was no longer a coating of dust on every surface. There were instead flowering plants tucked into every nook and cranny, between books and on top of books, hanging from walls and ceilings.

And on top of about half of these plants sat one fuzzy purple sentinel bee each, armed with a tiny duster. It would take Aziraphale a while to remember not to magically project dust onto the shop. He'd been doing it for so long that it felt only natural, so in the meantime it was up to the bees to battle the semi-sentient Dust.

Aziraphale was reading a book, as he often did. He was working his way through history again, had just finished the middle ages, and was indulging himself with his favorite Renaissance philosophers.

There were _two_ books spread before him, however. This second one was The Lorax, the bees' favorite book. Many of them were gathered around it, buzzing happily to each other.

This was the scene that Sollux interrupted.

"Hey AZ, is it normal for my dick to disappear? I just noticed it was gone."

With deceptive calm, Aziraphale slowly set down his book. "Let me make some tea, dear."


	2. The Pact

Roxy Lalonde and Dirk Strider had a Pact. They made this pact in the summer of 1979, during an extended (very extended and biologically unrelated) family reunion, where "reunion" is another way of saying "Satanic potluck with board games for the children and an orgy for the adults".

The Lalondes were an old wizarding family from Normandy. They were powerful and respected, though unfortunately neutral when it came to the Eternal Struggle, both sides lamented. Still, it was customary for them to be invited to all the events. Anyone who was anyone in the magic world had to know at least one Lalonde to be fashionable. So it was that Roxanne Lalonde, fifteen years old, came to be in attendance at this most dire of potluck locations: a nudist camp in Colorado Springs.

"Maman," Roxy whined, kicking her feet as she sat on a splintering park bench, "I want to go back to New York."

"Hush," said Renee Lalonde. "A lady must act with _decorum_. We'll return as soon as these dreadful nuns stop chattering."

"But _maman_ ," Roxy said. "They'll never stop! The Chattering Order of St. Beryl prides itself on being able to talk 'til the end of days! Literally!"

Renee huffed. Teenagers were so exasperating. "In any case, you're to stay here with the other children. Make friends."

"With _who_ , the spawn of the Satanic nuns?"

"Well, then make acquaintances with potential future human sacrifices!"

"Maman!" Roxy shouted, but her mother had already fashionably sashayed her way toward the Adults Only orgy clubhouse.

Once her mother was out of range, Roxy turned to face her stalker, who turned out to be a teenage boy, rather handsome. He was strong, blond, and freckled, with a look on his face that said he would be equally at home wrangling horses on a ranch as he would be catching waves at a beach. Roxy narrowed her eyes.

"What do you want?"

"Nothin'," he said with a southern drawl. "Just thought you seemed better company than the nuns."

His cheeks were a bit red, most likely from being pinched by sweet devil-worshiping aunties. Roxy mentally awarded him points for not being nun-spawn. That only left he possibilities of being distantly related to a Satanic nun, or having been invited because it was fashionable, as was the case with the Lalondes.

"Well. I'm Roxy, as you know. Obviously a Lalonde."

"Obviously," he said, lips lifting into an almost-smile.

"So what about you? What's your clan?"

"Strider. Name's Dirk."

A man of few words. Roxy nodded in approval.

The Strider part was okay too. The Striders didn't have pure bloodlines or anything like that, but they tended to be quite powerful as far as wild mages went. Many of them were adopted into the clan after displays of power. Striders were said to be descended from nephilim, generations and generations removed. Anyone who was anyone knew that.

"So can you do the Thing?" Roxy asked.

"Thing?"

"Strider thing! Can you _stride_?"

Dirk's previous half-smirk returned. It bloomed into a full smirk. He made a movement to lunge, and in an instant he had gone from in front of her to behind her. The blast of wind blew up the hair on the nape of Roxy's neck.

"Wicked!" Roxy jumped in excitement. "I wanna have babies with you."

"...What?"

This question went unanswered. Roxy had skipped off to get them both some infernal BBQ.

They hung out the rest of that terrible weekend. The nuns around them chattered about the Apocalypse and Sister Mary Loquacious' daring feat in delivering Warlock Dowling, the Antichrist, to his chosen human parents. That _was_ what everyone was here to celebrate, after all.

Sometimes the nuns also stripped naked – it _was_ a nudist camp, after all.

Dirk and Roxy pretended not to see or hear any of that. They were each the very first magical friend that the other had made. When it was time to head back home, that was when they made the Pact.

"I need an heir," Roxy said. They were standing in a parking lot, gravel crunching underfoot, watching Satanic nuns pile into coach buses.

"You're fifteen," Dirk said. "You _are_ the heir."

"So? I'm not saying I want a kid _now_."

Dirk shrugged. "So you'll meet some guy in the future."

"But what if I _don't_ , is what I'm saying. I'm not marrying one of these creeps," she said, pointing to the nun-spawn. "And besides, don't you want to pass on the wicked cool Strider stride?"

"So what, you wanna make a pact or somethin'?"

"Yeah!"

Thus the Pact was made. In ten years, they said, if it didn't look like they were going to have luck reproducing with anyone else, Dirk owed Roxy a booty call.

And, as luck (or witchcraft1) would have it, Roxy gave birth to twins. One heir for each clan. Perfect.2

 

* * *

 

1Definitely witchcraft.

2Except for the part where their firstborn's "fairy godmother" was a Satanic nun who "gifted" (read: cursed) him with extreme loquaciousness. But that's another story for another time.


	3. Douchelords Anonymous

"Hear ye, hear ye. Since all members are present, this first meeting of International and Transdimensional Douchelords Anonymous shall now commence."

Dave looked up from his speaker's notes to acknowledge Crowley, Damara, Eridan, Sollux, and the bees. Half the bees, anyway. The other half were being helpful and angelic elsewhere.

"What's the point of this group?" Eridan asked.

"It's for cool bros to chill together and troll the uncool. The bees," he said, pointing to the bees, "said it was inefficient that we were all trolling separately. No longer. Now we join forces. 'Cuz I don't know about you, but I don't like getting judged by bees."

"No one likes getting judged by bees," Sollux said. "Sometimes it's the only reason I bother to get up in the morning."

"Exactly. Glad we're on the same page. So the nearly nonexisent hierarchy for this Douche Group is that Crowley is our president, we are all his minions, all hail the king of trolls."

Crowley preened, lazily saluting his new troll minions. None of his minions saluted back. In fact, Damara hadn't looked up once from the time the meeting was called. She had been engrossed in sketching what looked like monster sex hentai while a small posse of bees helped her ink. And this is just as he would have it. What good is an army of chaos without autonomy?

"...Yeah, great." Dave continued on. "He's the Big Man. No objections, okay, cool. Damara is Catfishing Queen, Sollux is Chief Hacktivist, Eridan is Pope Hipster the Fourth–"

"Why the fourth?"

"Why not the fourth?"

"What does that even _mean_?"

"It means you're in charge of the Church of Cooler Than Thou, which means your job is to be the most hipster of all hipsters and to annoy all living hipsters by being way more hipster than they could ever dream of. You were into living before it was cool, but now all these noobs are in your old haunting grounds, so you've moved on to being dead as last year's nail trends."

Eridan opened his mouth to retort, found that he had no idea if he opposed this idea or not, and instead said, "...Whatever!"

"Still no objections, great. So then the bees will be on-call assisstants, to provide back-up where needed. That's all."

"And you?" Crowley asked, bemused.

"Big Man, c'mon. Obviously I'm the annoying mouthpiece that never shuts up. The press secretary of doom, the lord of spin, the fruit of the loins of Sarah Huckabee Sanders and Kellyanne Conway – eugh. Not that last one, I think I just puked in my mouth. I'll just stick with Lord of Spin as my official title. Any piles of straight-up bullshit you need turned into gold, I can spin that. It's an American-exclusive skill in the RPG of life. It's called Truthiness, grants +10 proficiency in gaslighting through verbal diarrhea... Hey, does that demon have three dicks?"

Damara finally looked up.  "He protec, he attac, he triple-team your ass cracc."

Crowley was very,  _very_ proud of his army of chaos.


End file.
